


Logs of a Whaler 2.0

by Alijaykalium



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Dishonored 1, Dishonored 2, GIVE IT TIME, M/M, Medium Chaos (Dishonored), Old to New, POV First Person, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Dishonored 2 (Video Game), Short Chapters, Slow Build, Weekly Updates, personal project
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-01-15 08:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18494743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alijaykalium/pseuds/Alijaykalium
Summary: Older and wiser I'll try this story again. Don't mind me.Dishonored 1, Published Draft 2.0.Years ago, young and silly, I thought I could write a damn good story which I never finished. The fact that I haven't finished bothers me just a little and I've been wanting to rewrite this story.This is just a personal project, enjoy![I'm looking to improve my writing skill, so (for things that kinda suck) honest critiques would be much appreciated!]





	1. Timty

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Constructive and honest critiques are greatly appreciated!  
> Note: I like to publish, edit, and re-edit. So if you get updates about this story and don't see new chapters, ya'll know why :)

In a dusty corner of the Royal Conservatory, on the Isle of Serkonos, a stack of worn and ancient audiographs quietly sit, forgotten by the world.

The diplay’s plaque read:

_A Collection of Audiographs Found in the Ruins of the Flooded District_

_Detailing the Life of a Whaler Assassin and_

_The Murder of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin_

_Mid 1829-1837_

_Article # 35825_

_\----_

The Conservatory vibrated with varying energies; some thrilled to see enormous displays of whale skeletons, others pompously upturning their noses at pretentious portraits done by some Alkov Sokoton.

Patrons boredly leant against the audiograph card display, placed their drinks atop it, absently wiped their snot underneath the Tyvian oak it sat on.

A stick-like, cowardish man excitedly chattered the Royal Curator's ear off, declaring his fascination of "this" time in Dunwall's history, expressing surprise that this encapsulation wasn't stored within the palace archives, mentioning (for the third time) that he is not necessarily a historian, but an enthusiast, and is strongly against assassination--especially against Royal Figures--but couldn't help but feel drawn to the modem of execution (with all due respect to all involved parties).

The Royal Curator tiredly shooed away some "ignorant fools", as [Timty, was it? {Yes.}] called them, opened the case and retrieved the cards for him.

"If I may ask," Timty said as the Curator lifted the stack out of the encasing, "why aren't these kept on Gristol? It would make more sense since these documents concern an incredibly crucial period of time and were found in the Flooded District."

The Curator closed, locked the lid of the display and stuffily marched towards the elevator--Timty close on her heels, the stack of cards tucked beneath her arm.

"Might've been a request from one of the previous Curators," she answered curtly, disappointed the elevator gates didn't close on him.

Timty's head bounced excitedly. "I see, I see, yes, yes."

The Curator turned her head away from Timty and heaved a quiet, long sigh.

"Is something the matter?"

"Tired."

Timty nodded again. "Yes, yes. All this history must get tiring by some point, eh?" He chuckled sociably.

The Curator shrugged.

They stood in still silence for a moment.

"I don't believe I ever got your name, Curator....?"

"Curator."

The elevator doors dinged open and she quickly stepped out, walking as quickly as she could from the awkward man. His lanky legs easily maintained her pace and it annoyed her, slightly.

"Curator Curator. My! What a coincidence!" Satisfaction lit the corners of his eyes and, although she was bullying him, his sincerity was contagious and a small smile cracked her agitation.

She could have corrected him.

Instead, she said, "Yes. Coincidence."

They winded through shelves of Imperial history, passing by old or decommissioned works.

The Curator calmly observed her employees as she passed and Timty attempted to absorb as much information as he could as she led him to the Archives.

They eventually make it to the steel gate. She unlocked it with her key and he followed close behind as they made their way into the cramped space.

She set the cards on a desk and moved a stool to stand on, looking for the appropriate audiograph model for the cards.

She quickly found it and tugged at the machine but it was heavier than she expected. 

"Do you mind helping me lift this down?"

"Not at all!"

He moved next to her, the both of them equal height when she's on the stool.

The machine easily came down with Timty's help. He set it on the desk.

"Hm. Ancient technology, isn't it?" He adjusted his thickly-rimmed spectacles and peered curiously at the engravings on the player.

"Actually," she pulled a registry book from a shelf that overlooked the two of them, "it's not very old. Only several decades at most."

She opened the book and flipped through ink-soaked pages until she reached the one titled _Registry of Observation and Permitted Analysis_.

"We've come a long way since then. It's extremely ancient." Timty matter-of-factly adjusted his spectacles and analyzed the bronze engravings of the machine.

“Sign your name here.” The Curator jabbed her finger at a mostly blank page.

He fillled out the date, time, and the cards’ article number.

“Once you’re finished here, sign the time you leave and just leave everything here. Let me know once you’re done, too. I’ll be just outside.” She gestured outside the Archive window towards the office space.

Timty nodded.

“Be careful with the cards, handle them gently. This machine is old but is frequently maintained. Nonetheless, be gentle with both articles. You will be charged a heavy fine for damage if you fail to do so.”

The Curator motioned towards the machine. “Operating it is simple. Place an audiograph card in the slot and push once to listen. Only push once. The contents of the cards could be erased if you push more than once sequentially. Once an audiograph is done, the card will stop moving and the button will jump up. To pause, push half-way on the button and then push the rest of the way to continue playing. Only remove the card from the slot when an entire recording has played through. If you play a recording again, from the beginning, you can’t remove the card until it has finished completely.”

“Understood.”

“Have fun.” She stepped out into the office space, the steel gate clicking behind her, leaving Timty alone.

Timty pulled out the desk chair, the legs abrasively scratching against the concrete floor. He ran his fingers around the surface of the first audiograph card on the stack, feeling the grooves and punctured holes underneath his calloused fingers.

Timty lifted the card and pushed it into the audiograph slot.

His heart fluttered.


	2. Log 1

The audiograph crackled oldly.

The thick air inside the archives seemed to echo the emptiness the machine resonated.

No sound other than static and ticking permeated the air.

Timty was concerned for a moment that the Conservatory was given fakes.

Seconds slowly passed, enunciated by the machine's ticking.

 

_Assassination is tricky business. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out._

 

Timty’s heart caught in his throat.

 

The gravelly voice continued on:

 

_Out of all of the contracts we’ve taken, this is the one I knew would be the stupidest. I've already seen the effects of our mistake. The stitches of the Empire were already coming loose and now holes are being torn into its fabric._

_They always called the Empress different._

_Us, down here—it didn’t matter to us. Doesn’t matter. Probably never will._

_But maybe…maybe it mattered to someone else, somewhere._

_[silence]_  

_I’m not a killer. But I need them. These people. The Whalers, Daud._

_And they needed money, so I needed money._

_[silence]_

_I regret what I’ve done. To both sides of the coin._

_Maybe I should’ve killed the Royal Protector. But men like us—_

_More like men like_ him _face fights head-on._

Timty leaned forward in his seat, anticipation thrumming through him.

_There’s something dishonorable about hitting a man at his weakest point._

_But who am I to talk about honor?_

_We killed his wife, took his daughter, and now a fool—a low-down coward, unable of empathy for anybody aside from himself, sits in the_ regency _._

_I don’t want to think about it._

_But maybe I need to._

_His face flashes behind my eyes every time I blink. The emptiness. The screams of his young daughter. The red spilled across the pavilion’s white marble._

_[silence]_

_It’s morbid, but I take comfort in the knowledge that I am not the only one that walks this district with her death weighing on our hearts._

 

_I hear even Daud is tainted by the memory._

_End log._

 

The audiograph card clicked into its final position, the button mechanically jumped upwards, startling Timty out of his dream state.

He lifted the card out of the slot and pushed it back in again, listening to the words carefully the second time around.

 

 

He rolled the words, the voice in his head, carefully categorized what he thought and felt into little boxes and made a decision.

 

He then removed the card from the slot and reached for the next one.


	3. Log 2

_The seams started ripping when the rats and the—and the plague started killing everybody._

_[Frustrated and defeated sigh, thought Timty.]_

_My—uh—my mother, she._

_She was a maid at a nearby clinic._

_She worked hard, every day and night she’d be out, helping people._

_That’s what killed her. Helping people._

_Maybe that’s what killed the Empress too._

_[silence]_

_She was a vibrant soul. Fire in her eyes._

_By the Outsider, I miss her._

_[silence, can of presumed whale meat being opened]_

_At the time, the plague was barely a problem. Sure, a few people caught it but even then, they didn't turn into damn weepers. Nobody expected them to roam the streets as corpses. I guess those in the Academy aren’t as forward-thinking as we are down in the slums._

_[silence, scraping of metal on metal, sloppy chewing]_

_My, ah, younger brother decided to become an Overseer. Some bullshit about how he'll come back and bring all of us to safety in time; healing in faith or whatever._

_[scoff]_

_Asshole._

_Those Overseers’ve got somethin’ special in their water. There’s no way you can be that delusional without a bit of help._

_[sound of metal tapping, Timty pictured a spoon tapping against a can of whale meat]_

_My dad was a whaler—not like me—but a fisherman. Had been my whole life._

_I’d gone with him once. He was nicer on boats. On land, though. He was always frustrated. Yellin’ at all of us, even Mom once._

_He left. But we convinced ourselves he got lost to the sea._

_Fuck him._

_For a while, it was only me and my sister._

_She went crazy too._

_One night she came in, bit of a haze and packed her shit._

_I asked her what she was doing._

_She said she found a better place. A happier place._

_I thought she'd gone mad with fever so ... I let her go._

_It’s hard to completely remember that night. ‘Cause I swear, as she walked out the door a woman seemed to appear out of thin air and then the both of them vanished. I thought I was going mad with plague, but I mighta just been drunk._

_The next morning was shitty._

_I was alone._

_Mom gone, Pa gone, sister, brother—fuck!_

_[metal clanging]_

_How do you lose so many people at the blink of an eye?_

_I left that shit hole later that week._

_Didn’t give a single shit if I was dead or alive. Picked fights with gangsters, officers, shit I think I even fought a rat once and it almost won._

_This old lady, though, man, Granny Rags? I remember avoiding the crap outta her. She always freaked us out, even before the plague and all this business._

_Crazy fuckers._

_End log._

 

The machine whirred, click.

Timty leaned back in the rickety chair

and stared out

the window.

The office bustled.

The Curator was leaning against a bookshelf, reading something.

Someone tapped her shoulder and said something

probably something

important;

Timty couldn't hear, then

something rang, but the sound,

Timty noticed, was

coming from inside

and he stared

at the stack

of cards.

It was coming from them,

but it wasn't coming from them.

He carefully

removed the audiograph

card from the slot,

set it on top of the first one,

reached for the next one.

Click.

 


	4. Log 3

_I met Daud and Lurk a long time ago._

_Can’t remember when._

_‘M pretty sure I was roaming the streets. Maybe looking for some elixir, maybe some drink. I could only afford Slackjaw’s elixir._

_Just heard not too long ago--from Rulfio and the other boys--that his elixir’s distilled, not as potent as the original thing._

 

_Wonder why ‘m not dead._

 

_I guess there’s something dumbly poetic about seeking medicine and poison and learning that your stash was one and the same._

_I think I remember one of Slackjaw’s boys that day. Almost certain._

_Since I’ve joined Daud and gotten his powers, my—memories of my old life, they’ve._

_[wistful pause]_

_They’re harder to recall._

_I think that’s why I’m doing this._

_Trying not to forget._

_Have a thing to use when I do._

 

_[focused silence]_

 

_Slackjaw’s boy. Yeah. He was my supplier. But I can’t remember his face. I remember his ring, though. Diamond-shaped, not a diamond._

_I remember Daud that day, though. Clearly._

_Ironic, since I only caught a glimpse of him out the corner of my eye._

_He was this black and red blur, darted from somewhere above me onto this carriage that was stationed in the middle of the street. Clavering, maybe._

 

_[huff, presumed headshake]_

 

_He was watching someone, something._

_I remember because some asshole Watch Guard shoved me down some stairs and I--fell._

_[pause]_

_In the trenches of the Art Dealer’s apartment._

_[pause]_

_Maybe I walked down them._

_[pause]_

_I think he told me to move along._

_[machine whirr. Timty pictured the assassin rubbing his temples frustratingly, trying to force the memories out.]_

_I can’t remember what I did._

 

_I remember looking out onto the street, through the black iron bars._

_Was fascinated by how he’d gotten up there._

_I think I tried to convince myself that it was a maintenance man or some other person that was supposed to be up there._

_But then I saw the sword and the mask and, you know._

_Well._

_You know what you know._

 

_The energy, I remember this clearly--maybe because I feel it so often nowadays--shifted._

_The feeling where you think you see shadow people and you turn to look but there’s no one there. No one._

_Not even the guards who were standing at one second, then gone at a blink._

_Things were happening._

_I could feel it in the air, but I couldn’t see it._

 

 _I remembered looking back up at Daud, remember being confused because he hadn’t moved. His back was still turned to me and all around, entire bodies were being pulled into—into_ somewhere _._

_I think._

_[contemplative pause]_

_I think there was a guard that_

_[frustrated sigh]_

_I don’t know, “caught” Daud’s accomplice. I think he was trying to be “sneaky” and catch the perpetrator, but Daud saw him first._

_He transversed down from the carriage top and choked out the guard._

_I remember my nausea clearly, despite the muddiness of everything else._

_S’pose it’s ‘cause I feel nauseous all the time nowadays._

 

_There were three. Daud and Billie, both clad in red—Daud had someone tossed over his shoulder— another one clad in blue._

_Never actually found out who it was. Lots of us are in blue. They never came forward._

 

_But anyway--they’d wiped out the entire street of guards, civilians, weepers._

_They stood about behind the carriage, directly in my line of sight talking about something._

_I couldn’t hear what. Probably the plan for whatever they did that day._

_Long story short, Billie found me._

_Almost killed me._

_Daud didn’t let her._

_Brought me here. Turned me into one of his._

_[hesitant pause]_

_What if—_

_Well._

_What if Daud turns us into him?_

_I’m not who I was. I can’t remember who I was._

_I—_

Click.

 

Shit! Timty slammed his hands down on the table, alerting the Curator outside.

“Damn card ran out of space,” he grumbled.

She quickly got up from her desk and made her way to the archive door.

“All good in here?” she pushed ornate glass-and-iron open. Her eyes landed on the audiograph machine and cards, attempting to assess any damage.

Timty nodded, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sincerest apologies. The speaker was interrupted, just—wanted to hear what he had to say.”

The Curator nodded, entering the room completely. “Just want to make sure nothing was damaged.”

She gave a quick once-over of the materials on the desk.

“It’s a shame,” said Timty, contemplative, “he probably kept talking, never realizing the machine stopped. We’ll never know his words.”

“You cracked the table, Timmy.”

“Timty.”

“What did he say that made you wanna know so badly?”

Timty sighed and leaned back in the rickety chair. His lower back ached.

“He said he didn’t know who he was.”

The Curator quietly huffed out her nose. “And you had that to break our property to?”

“Is this an artifact of Imperial history?” Timty smoothed his fingers over the fracture.

“This desk has been here for nearly a century!”

“It isn’t very old. Perhaps only several decades at most,” he shot back.

The Curator scoffed and crossed her arms. “Unbelievable.”

Timty cleared his throat and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. He took a calming breath. “Excuse me. I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”

“Well, we close in an hour so make this quick.” She almost stormed out of the archive.

“Wait,” said Timty. He looked at the stack of cards sitting on the desk, determined he’d have to come back after today.

“What?”

Timty looked at the Curator’s face. She looked mad.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Nothing.”

“Why?” Timty asked, curious.

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“Why not?” He asked again, appalled this time.

“Because my name is none of your business!” she snapped.

The few employees still in the office turned to look at her through the archive window.

Timty pushed his glasses up again.

“Well then. I suppose I’ll learn it later. I'm sorry, for breaking the desk. I just--Ifind _identity_ to be incredibly important. People exist in history for their stories to be remembered forever. They never are. Only the great ones. This is the story of some cog in a great machine, and nobody has heard it.” Timty smoothed his fingertips over the surface of the audiograph machine. “This here. This is someone’s truest identity. And shitty technology kept me from learning it.”

The Curator wanted to chuckle at his last remark but she rolled her eyes instead. “There are other cards, fool." She almost left, the door halfway shut behind her. "And by the way, this _shitty_ technology is what's allowing you to learn about this guy."

The door closed completely, click.

 

Timty watched her walk over to her desk.

The same employees who stared

earlier

made their way to her and asked something,

probably

_what happened?_

She looked apologetic, giving the

smile

for it. She said some words, waved a hand.

 

“Perhaps," said Timty,

to something

already in the past,

"But the words

lost on this card

can't be recovered.”

 

He mourned empty air for

a quarter of the time he had left.

Then he reached for the card

next,

click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to OldDunwall for commenting! I had this chapter typed up but I forgot to publish it. Thank you for your kind words! Cheers!


	5. Log 4 and Timty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! I like to publish, edit, and then re-edit so if you get updates about this story but don't see any new chapters, that's why. Thanks so much! Cheers!

_[clearing throat]_

_[footsteps, muffled, varying in volume. The assassin was pacing or moving things around, thought Timty.]_  

_I hope this card works._

_I’ve found a bunch throughout the district. I went looking for more ‘cause I was beginning to run out._

_Some are empty cards, some aren’t._

_The cards with music_

_[Timty imagined three little stacks of audiograph cards, imagined him sifting through a little deck in his hand]_

_I’ve decided to erase, since there are plenty of other copies and nothin’ll be lost to the wind._

_The cards that have memos-- like my thing--I keep._

_I’ve been listening to them when I can’t sleep._

_Daud and Lurk haven’t been involving me in anything so this is what I’ve been doing to pass the time._

_[little pause. s_ _hrugging, maybe setting a little organized stack next to the audiograph player]_

_Rulfio, Aedan, and Dmitri, they brought me some audiograph cards earlier today._

_I was embarrassed, sure._

_But it was a nice gesture and there isn’t enough of that to go around._

_[tired sigh]_

_Okay. I think that’s all I wanna talk about today._

_End log._

 

Timty furrowed his brow.

“That’s it?” he muttered.

He shoved his fingers through his hair, frustrated, then checked his timepiece.

It was almost six.

He sighed. “Well, tomorrow it is.”

He made a neat little pile of the cards he had already listened to on the left side of the audiograph machine and kept the cards he hadn’t gotten to on the right.

The barred glass door opened and in walked the Curator. “Alright. Closing time.”

 She moved to collect the audiograph cards—

“Wait,” said Timty as he stood, “can I come in again tomorrow? I haven’t finished the whole collection.”

The Curator sighed and looked somewhere towards the Void.

“You’ll have to go through the same process, but I can keep these articles on hold for you.”

“Excellent! And, uh, do you mind—when on hold—keeping these two stacks separate? Just so that I can go through them quicker and then get out of your hair.” He folded his arms behind his back and bounced on his heels by the end of the last statement.

She grabbed some rubber bands from a drawer underneath the desk, “Sure.”

Timty attentively observed as she snapped the rubber bands over one set of cards and then the other.

The Curator stopped, looked at him tiredly. “You can go.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. See you tomorrow!”

Hesitantly, he let himself out of the archive, giving the Curator a quick two-finger salute and walked towards the exit. It led into a lower courtyard of the Conservatory. He skipped up the steps, to the main entrance of the Conservatory, paying little mind to the few guards and Overseers.

Down the street, past the gates that blocked off the street directly in front of the Royal Conservatory, was the hotel that he’d be staying at for his time on Serkonos.

By this time of day, Timty noted, the sun had cast orange and purple hues onto the Cyrian buildings. Beautiful and indescribable, nothing like the constant grey-white light that Gristol’s sun begrudgingly shines.

Timty stuffed his hands in his pockets and ambled down the street.

Serkonos, hot and humid during the day, was pleasantly chilly during sundown.

Timty breathed it in.

It was familiar.

Not nearly as biting as the air on his street back home, but better than the isle’s usual temperature.

Serkonos was not a place he ever considered visiting. He assumed that all the Imperial history he would ever have to or want to know would be on Gristol. After all, that’s where the palace is, where the current Emperor resides, where all the important capitols of the empire exists. He didn’t imagine Serkonos, with its luxury promises and diminutive culture, ever had any sort of historical value. Hypocritical? Sure.

He couldn’t deny that the architecture was beautiful. Archaic, stucco and wood, and few metallic accents were a pleasant change from the cold, blue-grey tones of Gristol. Dunwall, more specifically.

The ancient buildings of this sector of Cyria hadn’t been torn down since Empress Emily Kaldwin times.

The area apparently served as an important marker on a chess board against some tyrant, long forgotten now.

To Timty, they served as a ribcage against the rest of the world, the Royal Conservatory its beating heart. He, just a small cell waiting to finish its task and leave its body.

He watched the rooftops as he walked, imagined he heard whispers of footsteps dance from roof to streetlamp, this way and that. He imagined blue or purple trails leaving dusty pathways from spot to spot. The sky above him was a web of bruises.

His mother always told him he had a vivid imagination

Since he had gotten to Serkonos, however, he felt that the "vividness" of his imagination had become different. He couldn’t help but feel that there was some otherworldly thing that calls to him. He feels like it leaks through the cracks of his hotel, bleeds somehow into his impeccable memory, distorts the images, turns them into something grey and inaudible.

Despite his complexities, simplicities have a way over the mind and he couldn’t help but notice the faded pink-red of the hotel he was staying at. It stuck out like a sore thumb from the other buildings’ teals, greys, and off-whites.

He had viewed an old map of the local area when he was still back at Gristol.

The hotel, he noted, was once a bar. The bright red from an ancient _Razina_ advertisement still stained the façade outside.

Timty made his way through the front door.

The clerk greeted him. He reciprocated kindly and continued onwards to his room.

It didn’t surprise him, though, that the hotel was once a bar. The floorboards rank of something flammable and the shelves of the lobby are wine bottle storage units.

He thinks that one of the hotel staffers attempted to explain it as a stylistic decision, but he stopped listening when they started lying.

Timty unlocked his room and entered, letting the door shut behind him.

He flipped all the lights on, set his glasses on the table, and threw his lanky body on the loveseat in the middle of the room. It was only long enough for his torso. The bed wasn’t very different either. His limbs didn’t fit and he kept finding himself halfway on the floor every time he woke up.

The audiograph cards' revelations had been disappointing. He expected more. The assassination of Empress Jessamine wasn’t as spoken about as he had hoped, and the last recording was downright pointless.

“People are difficult to get,” he said to himself.

He let his body slide from the loveseat onto the floor and decided he’d sleep there for the night.

 

In a red office

somewhere important

a young woman

traces portraiture

of old identity.

She scorns it sometimes

but it calls

rings

like--

click.


	6. Log 5

The sun was too bright.

It violated the windows of his room and shined onto his face.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

His drool was puddled on the floor.

“Ew.”

He took his sweater vest off and threw it over the spot, letting the material soak it.

He pushed his hair from his eyes and tiredly scrubbed his face.

He checked his timepiece.

11.

The Conservatory was already open, so he’d be able to head right over.

He pushed himself up. His joints ached.

"Sleeping on the floor fuckin' sucks," he groaned as he stretched to the ceiling.

Something in his back popped.

He shuffled over towards the bathroom but stumbled over a short nightstand and fell.

He resignedly pushed himself up, pretended like he was unaffected to no one in particular, and continued his journey.

He braced himself at the sink and looked in the mirror.

“Ew.”

His blonde hair was falling in curly tufts around his eyes, scruff had already begun sprouting under his cheekbones and around his jaw, and his face had marks from his watch and sleeve.

Oh yes, and dried drool.

He’d have to buy a razor later.

He washed his face, feeling much fresher afterward, and searched around the room for his bag. He knew he didn’t forget it this time around.

Once, on a tourist expedition to Pandyssia, Timty had left his belongings on a ship that brought him there and he had no idea that that very ship was not going to be the one that was going to take him back to the main isles. He’d lost some valuable things that were expensive to recover.

He finally found it. He didn’t pack many things, just a journal and two weeks’ worth of clothes. All his clothes were beige.

Call me eccentric, he thought as he pulled out an outfit that was only slightly different from the day before.

Once prepped and ready-to-go Timty rushed out the hotel and darted down the street towards the Conservatory.

At the ticket booth, he presented his special-access pass and the woman behind the counter directed him towards the Royal Curator’s office. He darted inside and up the stairs, presenting his pass to those who tried to stop him and quickly made his way to the office.

“Curator Curator!” he exclaimed as he walked in. “How are you today?”

The Curator eyed him oddly. “Excuse me, sir. What are you doing here?”

Timty furrowed his brow, confused. “I came in the other day to listen to a collection of audiograph cards dated between eighteen-thirty-nine and eighteen-thirty-seven.”

The Curator squinted her eyes at him. “Timty?”

“You remember!”

“Why do you look so different?”

“How do you mean?”

The Curator shook her head. She reached into a cabinet underneath her desk. “Nevermind. I have the audiograph cards here. The machine is still in the archive. I didn’t move it.”

She pulled out a little safe and turned the combination of the lock tumbler. She pulled out the two stacks of cards and handed them over to Timty.

“You won’t be coming along?” he asked, checking over the cards’ conditions.

“I’ve got a busy day ahead of myself. I’ve assigned an employee to keep an eye on you while you’re down there. Just fill out your name on the Registry page in the book that we looked at the other day. You remember the one, right?”

Timty nodded, “Mhmm.”

“Alright. Then knock yourself out. We close at six.” She waved him off and turned her attention to some picture book spread open on her desk.

“Thanks.”

Timty exited her office and made his way to the elevator.

A quick ride down to the basement level later, and he was greeted by some forgettable face that explained to him things he already knew.

He politely pushed them off and dashed to the archives, pushing open the glass door.

Timty quickly scribbled his information into the Registry and unbound the cards.

Click.

_[machine whirr]_

_Birthday celebrations were tricky growing up._

_My brother and sister would make fun of me—they’d call me a ghost—because I was born during a time that “isn’t real”._

_[huff]_

_I’d believe it sometimes._

_My mom tried to make it as normal as she could, but bakeries and delis were always closed because people would never pay for the goods._

_She tried, though._

_My dad—he’s fuzzy. I can’t remember anything with him._

_I want to think that we’d do good things together._

_I dunno._

_Birthdays felt worse when I got a bit older because his absence just added to the “ghostliness”._

_My mom said that my birthday was a week and a half into the Fugue Feast._

_But she didn’t have any documentation, so nowadays I just celebrate when the High Overseer announces its start._

_[sigh]_

_“Celebrate” has different meanings for different people, clearly._

_Some people go drink, parties, picnics, whatever._

_The boys here actually don’t throw any parties._

_Not ‘cause they’re a buncha’ schmucks that don’t know how to have fun, it’s just Daud and Lurk have a way of ruining the mood._

_That’s besides the point._

_I go back home during my “birthday”. Clavering._

_It’s right across the way from the Art Dealer, Bunting’s, apartment._

_I think it’s the middle-ground for the Bottle Street Gang too now._

_[silence]_

_Apparently, after I left._

_A small family of squatters._

_There was a book on our old dinner table._

_Talked about this lady’s kids, the plague._

_Then herself._

_I mourn her too, when I go there._

_Her and her kids._

_End log._

 

Timty sat back,

unfulfilled.

He sighed and

removed the card

from the machine

set it to the side

in a neat stack

retrieved the next

from the right pile,

click.


	7. Logs 6|7|8|9

**6**

_For a bunch of killers, the boys are a sack o’ saps._

_I got a bunch of audiograph cards today._

_I thought I’d just been having good luck, but they’d been leaving them around my watch spots._

_I didn’t think nothin’ of it until I found one lyin’ up at the top of the water tower that overlooks weepers’ territory._

_Not exactly the most inconspicuous place to leave a card lyin’ around, but, you know. It’s a nice gesture._

_[cheerful huff]_

_The cards ‘re all waterlogged, but I’m sure if I leave ‘em to dry I’ll be able to use ‘em._

_End log._

Click.

 

**7**

_[machine whirr]_

_[several voices]_

_James!_

_Happy Fugue Birth-feast!_

_This’ll be a good one!_

_[somewhere off in the distance] Woo!_

Click.

 

 

  **8**

_[machine whirr]_

_James._

_It’s Zachary._

_You’ve been making great improvement since you’ve joined us._

_And sorry your birthday is, you know, when it is._

_I know it can be difficult for a lot of people._

_We’re all happy to celebrate with you._

_I’ll see you in the training room._

Click.

 

 

**9**

_[clearing throat]_

_James_

_It’s Thomas._

_You can wipe this message for your own purposes. Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday._

_Daud and Lurk too, but they aren’t the best with comradery._

Click.


	8. Log 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm....time goes by really fast i'm so sorry

_[machine whirr]_

_When I first joined the Whalers, I was a goddamn mess._

_I didn’t know anything about stealth other than lying, which got me into trouble with every assassin I came across. Especially Thomas. He’d be able to catch my bullshit before I even said a word._

_When I was a kid, though, man. I could sneak and lie like no tomorrow. It was my tiny size, I know it._

_[amused huff]_

_Actually, uh, maybe when I was um… six? Or seven years old maybe I think Darius—my brother—dared me to break into the Art Dealer’s apartment and steal somethin’ outta there._

_Man, [huff] I was scared. I remember that feeling. I managed to sneak in through the help’s door. I never got further than there, though._

_I picked off a key from one of the maid’s belts and got the hell outta there._

_He was real disappointed by it when I showed it to him, expecting a Tyvian urn or some other crap like that, but. He took it anyway._

_We always wondered what it opened. Pretty sure it was just the key to the maids’ door._

_Darius, I remember this, wanted to keep it a secret. Just us brothers. But then Sophie found it under our bed and, man, she told on us real hard at the dinner table._

_[chuckle]_

_[sigh]_

_Mom was mad. Told us to never do stupid shit like that again. I remember she gave me a little wink after dinner._

_[sigh]_

_For, like, days afterward, Darius pushed me to go back in and see what it opened. He even promised that he’d go in with me. Never did it, though._

_Guards were swarmed around the Dealer’s Apartment a few days later. We heard a gunshot._

_Man, guns were tricky shit back then, I imagine. ‘Cause they weren’t the best for accuracy or sometimes, even, lethality. And they’ve always been real fuckin’ loud, so as soon as it goes off, everybody pretty much is aware of what’s happened._

_Yeah._

_[remorseful sigh]_

_Yeah they killed that maid._

_I was too little to think of it back then._

_But it happened._

_[End log.]_

Click.


End file.
